


Manic Perturbation

by vulpineTrickster



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Bloodlust, Cannibalism, Death, Dismemberment, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gore, Implied necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insanity, M/M, NSFW, Slight Historical Inaccuracy, Slight OOC, Triggers, Violence, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpineTrickster/pseuds/vulpineTrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every nation has its darkest moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prussian Greed

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fanfic for my own literary enjoyment and wish to share it with other APH fans. The chapters I post here are not to be taken seriously and I apologize if I offend anyone. Also, I _**do not**_ support or condone any of the tags I used here. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the APH characters or the franchise; Axis Powers Hetalia rightfully belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
> 
> **_DO NOT COPY OR DUPLICATE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!!!!_ **

_~ Suum cuique ~  
~ To each his own ~_

With crazed eyes, he watches his soldiers’ lifeblood stain the muddy earth in a red shower. Limbs upon mangled limbs decorate the battlefield like colorful posies. Flayed organs and innards spill from their flesh hosts, blood spluttering from severed veins in steady bursts. Dying cries and determined shouts deafen his ears. The clang of battered iron and the twang of flying arrows make his body vibrate in frenzied pride. He cares not while his people, his children, are being slaughtered around him. All he desires is more power, more bloodshed, more everything!

Greed is his guiding angel and his whispering devil. When he takes up his sword, it is for his king and country. When he fights, it is for the betterment of the people. When he fights, it is for a prosperous future. Yeah right.

When he fights, it is for his own gain and pleasure. He revels in being bathed in dark red, whether it is from his enemies or his people. He craves that coppery liquid every battle, drinking his fill as if it is delectable wine. His weapons have no alliance. Battling and murdering are his very reasons for existing. The first thing he learns while being raised in this barbaric world is to kill. To kill is to survive. To survive is to grow stronger. To grow stronger is to kill. It is a never-ending cycle and his personal mantra.

As his opponent’s blood soaks his clothes, warming his face, a feral smile creeps across his lips.

“You are lucky. Not everyone gets to die by a nation’s hand, du dreckiger hund. Though, I wish they would. More fun for me!”

Before the injured soldier can whimper a pitiful reply, Prussia sadistically lops off his head.


	2. French Death

_~ Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité ~  
~ Liberty, Equality, Fraternity ~_

He observes with unrestrained and vicious glee as his guards drag yet another poor victim up the platform. Revolution surges through his veins, eradicating the remaining innocence from his body. The populace screams for blood, for change, and he delivers. He can never deny his people the proof of his love for them.

The nation happily listens to the condemned man shout while he is strapped down, pleading and crying. Despite the frigid weather coiling around him, his body heats up at the prospect of seeing the prisoner’s head roll to his feet. What a sight that will be! The look of fright eternally frozen on their pale faces sends shivers down his spine. Oh how he loves to gaze into those glassy oculars and see nothing but death and emptiness stare back. Sometimes he would kiss their chapped lips for the sake of his own enjoyment, sparking a perverse lust in his loins. If the deceased are women, he would take their cooling bodies, strip them, and just run his hands over the once supple tissue until bored; he even went as far as raping them. No one dare question his motives out of fear of a beheading; being a nation certainly has its upside.

Prostitutes are his finest quarry. He often visits the prisons before scheduled showings, sniffing out the most desirable ones and promises them freedom in exchange for sex. He whispers little lies in their ears as he savagely takes them on their cell’s floor. Once morning comes, he vanishes before first light, taking his silver-tongued words with him. The nation even has the gall to laugh as he sees the confused and terrified expressions the women get when they find him standing on the platform, waiting to drop the blade upon their necks. The mouths that had moaned and pleasured his body spit vulgarities at him until Madame Guillotine’s sharp sting curses them with everlasting silence.

A loud thunk of metal meeting wood brings the nation’s attention back to the public execution. The crowds around him cheer, easily sedating their thirst for blood for the day. He looks down at the head lumbering off the platform and toward his feet.

France bends down and picks up the offending body part by its greased hair. Pity it was a man this time. Maybe he should ask the tribunal to choose a woman next. It has been a while since his last romp.


	3. English Power

_~ Dieu et mon droit ~  
~ God and my right ~_

Terrified screams, the smell of gunpowder, bountiful riches; the vast ocean is a pirate’s bread and butter. When he took up his position of captain, the thrill of adventure swept him away. He does not care who he hurts in his travels: men, women, and children. They are all the same blank faces in his plundering life. His foes are easily destroyed under the weight of his ships, especially that troublesome armada. He has raped his fair share of wenches and cabin boys, even a few of his crewmates when they are drunk enough. He knows his Queen would throw a fit if she found out about the horrible activities he has done far from her reach. Oh well. What she does not know cannot hurt her, right?

He wants everyone to fear his name. To fear his growing power. No longer will he be that sniveling child who hides among rabbits and faeries. No longer will his siblings tease and abuse him, especially that Scot bastard.

“Por favor… mi capitán…”

Speaking of bastards, the nation turns his attention back to the naked man next to him and leers at his delicious handiwork. Long gashes and bleeding bite marks mar his captive’s tanned chest and neck. Exhausted pants escape from bruised lips with a thin line of blood running down a stubbly chin. Slender wrists are rubbed raw from the iron manacles binding them to the headboard. Olive green eyes, glazed over from his current ecstasy-filled high, silently beg for freedom.

“Have you learnt your lesson, pet?” he huskily drawls, running a calloused hand through his prey’s brown hair and harshly tugging on the curls.

A defeated moan and a slight nod relay the prisoner’s answer to the nation.

“Would like me to bestow upon you the liberty you so desperately yearn?”

“Sí…please, I need to—”

A vicious sound of skin hitting skin bounces off the cabin’s walls, followed by another and another. He watches in sick gratification as his prey’s eyes sting with tears with each strike. Once his pale hand throbs an angry red hue, he reaches between his tanned captive’s legs and cruelly grips the hardening cock. Choking back a strangled gasp, the bound man unintentionally bucks his hips into the touch. Blunt nails stab into the sensitive organ, rewarding the nation with a breathy sigh from his prisoner.

Satisfied, he leans over and kisses a sweaty forehead, lapping up the salty beads.

“Your mouth tells lies but your body sings the truth, love. I wonder how your adorable henchman would react if he saw his beloved boss in such an _arousing_ position.”

Spain freezes at the words spilling from that sinful mouth, his eyes reflecting panic. The name _Lovi_ ghosts over his chapped lips.

Fear, such a thrilling emotion. Fear of a loved one’s well-being is most exciting. He relishes in hearing terror-soaked pleas of surrender to lengthen their lifespan for a few mere measly seconds. Such pleas fall on deaf ears as he runs his cutlass through their disgusting bodies. He does not care who he hurts just as long as they look upon him with trepidation.

England darkly chortles at seeing his captive grow silent and lax, succumbing yet again to the creeping fear twisting in his gut. The Briton smiles at his wicked deeds. He cannot wait until Spain joins him in insanity’s thrall; such fun they’ll have together.

“Now then…I believe it’s my turn for a ride,” England croons, whorishly straddling the Spaniard’s hips.


	4. Russian Blood

_~ С Нами Бог ~  
~ God is with us ~_

**Drip drop drip. Drip drop drip.**

Red. His hands are red. They are always red.

**Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.**

No matter how much he cleans them or scrubs them raw until the skin blisters, the red never disappears.

**Drip drip drip.**

Why is he here again? Oh yes. He is here because they have to pay for their misdeeds. They are naughty children and such children need to be punished, yes? They made a mess of his front yard; now the sunflowers will never grow.

He watched them grow up and thrive. A regal man and a beautiful woman. Four little girls and a sickly boy. The people he sang lullabies to, celebrated birthdays and holidays with, taught how to read and dance and sing. They walked their first steps toward him. His name was their first word. He was first to hold them before their mothers did.

He cannot remember. Everything blurs together, meshing into uneven puzzle pieces. There are so many cracks fissuring his already fragile mind that he cannot differentiate between reality and fantasy.

Did he love them? Did his heart clench at the sight of their broken skulls and bullet-riddled corpses?

**Drip drop. Drip drop.**

So much red. Is it possible to have too much of one color? Red is the mark of evil, yes? Perhaps it is time for Russia to drench the world in red.


	5. American Lust

_~ E pluribus unum ~  
~ Out of many, one ~_

He lewdly grinds against the hand encircling his heated cock while three fingers roughly piston in and out of his puckered hole. A choked scream rips from his throat as he feels his warm seed spill from the engorged tip, garnishing his lean chest in opaque splotches. His body soon relaxes as he takes in long breathes of air to replenish his exhausted lungs. Amidst the heavy breathing, a wet heat engulfs his softened cock, lapping up the excess globs drizzling down the veined skin.

The nation’s lower half becomes enflamed again from the erotic ministrations. Blunt fingernails continue jabbing at his quivering insides, sliding in deeper until they hit that delightful spot within him. His back arches off the pillows when a fourth finger is added, mewling at the pleasurable burn that follows.

“Ngh! M-More! More…ahh! Harder!” he cries out.

“You are such a needy brat. Four of my fingers are inside you and you’re already begging me for more? Naughty boy~”

“I don’t c-care…just fuck me. I n-need you.”

A satisfied chuckle echoes from the darkness as a heavy body drapes itself over the writhing nation. The hand around his twitching cock is removed while the fingers are slowly extracted from his ass. He whines at the empty feeling. Dry lips brush along his damp brow.

“Slow or quick, my adorable slut?”

“Q-Quick.”

“Hmm, my favorite~”

In one swift movement, a thick cock thrusts up his stretched hole, not stopping until it is fully seated. He is not given a chance to adjust when the body above him harshly rolls his hips, pounding at his prostrate in unbridled frenzy. Grunts and moans of varying volumes resonate from the rutting duo. Mouths and tongues clash in a sea of saliva. He yelps when sharp incisors bite his neck, staining the skin in ruby red. Dazed blue eyes flutter closed in elation.

“Leave them open. I want you to watch.”

The nation only nods and complies at the kinky request. He watches his lover’s erection slide in and out of his ass, and gets a thrill from the slapping skin. A calloused hand wraps around his neglected cock and resumes its stroking.

“Aaahh…I’m gonna come soon.”

“Yes, that’s it. Come for me, whore.”

His climax rises higher and higher to the point where his mind clouds, only focusing on his bodily pleasures.

“Th-There! Almost…I…I…aahh—”

“Mister Jones?”

The knock on his bedroom door causes him the freeze, biting his tongue to keep from screaming out in wantonness and disappointment. Once his breathing is brought back to a semi-normal level, he turns his attention to the closed door.

“Yes, Betsy, what is it?” he asks rather hurriedly.

“I heard loud noises coming from your quarters and I wish to know if you are well, sir.”

“I’m fine. Please go back to bed.”

Seconds later, light shuffling is heard on the other side of mahogany wood as the pitter-patter of stocking feet walk away. He heavily sighs after the maid left and rolls onto his stomach, pressing his aching hard-on against the lumpy mattress.

“Damn it…now I have to start over again.”

Glancing at a large mirror resting adjacent from his bed, America finds his reflection smirking at him while he is not. It bears a similar resemblance to the nation, except for a long scar running across the bridge of his nose and his eyes being a shade darker.

“Then hurry up~” purrs his doppelganger. “I don’t have all night.”


	6. Hungarian Vanity

_~ Cum Deo pro Patria et Libertate ~  
~ With the help of God for Homeland and Freedom ~_

She giggles as the woman seated in her lap runs her fingers through her long damp curls. She slips her arms off the tub’s edge and wraps them around the other female’s waist.

“Having fun?” she croons in her partner's ear, lightly nipping at the cartilage.

“Of course, darling, you know how much I enjoy our baths together.”

“As do I. Now lean up so I can wash your back.”

The water sloshes around their bodies as the woman seductively wiggles off her nation’s lap and leans forward, brushing away any loose strands from a messily-prepared bun from her back. Smiling, the nation reaches to her left and grabs a washcloth off a small table littered with fragrance bottles and soaps. Once the cloth is fully saturated, she runs it up and down the woman’s back in slow circles, kneading the pale skin.

“Does it feel good, Mistress?”

A low mutter and the slight nod of a head answer back.

She slides the cloth lower, leisurely inching toward her partner's backside. “How about here?”

The woman’s moan hitches in her throat. “Darling…am I beautiful?”

“Yes, you are very beautiful,” she routinely answers, not missing a beat.

“More beautiful than the angels?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“More beautiful than you?”

She pauses, hand poised above the woman’s hip. “Why should you not be? You are my most special person after all,” she coolly responds.

“Promise me, darling. Promise that I’ll be beautiful forever.”

Unbeknownst to the woman, the nation gives an iniquitous smile, leaning forward and embracing her mistress again. She brushes her lips along a pulsing jugular, pressing her ample breasts against the other female’s back.

“I promise you, my lovely countess. I’ll make sure that you stay beautiful until the end of days…just like now.”

“Excellent, darling. Now then, I believe we have stayed in here long enough. Be a dear and dry me off.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Placing the sullied cloth back on the table, she rises up from the tub and steps out, her bare feet tingling from the cool floor. The woman watches her nation walk to the cabinet and glowers in envy at the young female’s supple body.

“Oh, make sure Giselle thoroughly cleans up after we leave. It would be a shame to lose such a nice girl,” the woman casually says, absentmindedly swirling the bathwater before standing.

“I will.”

She returns with a large fluffy towel, wrapping it around her dripping countess and proceeds to dry her clean. As she does, she kisses away any stray droplets, enjoying the unique taste of the bathwater. Her mistress shudders from the light touches, prompting the nation to leave behind a few grazing bites along her inner thighs when she kneels down to dry her mistress’ legs and feet.

“Shall I join you in your chambers later?” she asks, leisurely rising once her task is done.

The woman playfully sneers, grasping her nation’s hips. “Yes…and do not wash up. You are just going to get dirty again, darling.”

“Of course, Mistress,” she purrs as she deeply kisses the smirking countess.

They indulge in a few heated kisses. Their faces flush from their bubbling arousal. Tossing the towel away, she picks up a discarded ornate robe from the floor and drapes it over the woman’s naked body.

Countess Báthory dismisses any further help, tying the robe shut herself, and departs from the bath chamber, leaving her nation alone.

Hungary retrieves her own robe and slips it back on, yet leaves it untied. She runs her hands through her still-damp hair, carefully untangling a few curls. She notices blood staining her fingers when she pulls them back. Hungary does not react as she stares at the red liquid and then licks a slick digit. Humming in delight, she skips out of the room, leaving bloody footprints in her wake.

“I promise, Mistress…I’ll make us beautiful.”


	7. Spanish Wealth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my favorite in the bunch ^w^

_~ Plus Ultra ~  
~ Further Beyond ~_

“Where…”

**SLAP!**

“Is…”

**SLAP!**

“The…”

**SLAP!**

“Gold?”

He impatiently glares at his shackled and bloodied prisoner. The insolent woman refuses to answer him, locking her words away. She is such a stubborn bitch, but he has broken tougher people than her in the past. Her long black hair falls like a curtain in front of her ceremonial gown, devoid of a single adornment; he stripped her of her gold necklaces and bracelets, hoarding the trinkets as his own, long ago. He kneels down in front of the woman, grasping her bruised chin and harshly jerking her head up. Wild green eyes bore into hers as his lips curl into manic grin.

“Do you hear the voices of your people outside? They’re dying in the streets like dogs because you refuse to tell me what I want to hear.”

Instead of replying, the woman spits a bloody glob of phlegm on his cheek in her defiance.

He hears the clang of weapons behind him and raises a hand, signaling his men to stand down. “Relax. This barbarous act is no cause for alarm.”

He can sense his men growing impatient by the minute. They want the gold just as much as he does. They desire it. Yearn it. Crave it. Vast riches make the world go round, you know. When you are rich, you are the strongest. When you are strong, you get what you want, whether by right or by force. With the gold, he can be greater than his enemies, greater than his predecessor. Greater than everyone!

“Comandante! We found this heathen trying to escape!” a guard calls out as he approaches the main chamber.

Hearing the shouts, the nation turns to find three of his men and a bound native, a priest he assumes, enter the room. He smirks at finding the new prisoner is still garbed in gold baubles.

“Exquisito! Hold him still, por favor~” he happily chirps as he stands and walks over, unsheathing a dagger in the process.

The dark-haired woman watches in horror as he slices off her citizen’s ear in one fell swoop. The man screams and struggles against his captors. The blood oozes from the torn skin and slides down his neck. The nation then resumes his deadly actions by chopping off the other ear; the screams grow louder.

Despite witnessing this, the woman continues holding her tongue, yet unshed tears cling to her eyelashes.

He kneels down, picking up the bloody cartilages and relieving them of the thick gold earrings.

“I cut off this infidel’s ears and you still rebel. Is your silence really worth your people’s demise, mi querida?”

She sends a seething glare at him, tears now flowing freely.

He ignores her and longingly stares at the jewelry in his hand, running his fingers over the cool surface. His wicked grin reflects back.

“Strip and kill the heathen,” he orders.

The woman furiously yells and thrashes against the conquistadors who pull her up. She hisses and snaps at them but they are too strong and her strength has waned from the chaos outside the temple.

His soldiers indulge in their murderous hobby as they pilfer the gold from their new prisoner, sneering and laughing. They begin to flay his weathered skin from his bones, watching the delicate veins be sliced away. The moment the native opens his mouth to scream, a blade maliciously slides across his throat, cutting deep enough to sever his head from his neck; the white bone of his spine is exposed amidst the pink muscles and veins. Blood quickly spurts out, dousing the voracious soldiers in crimson. They look like wild beasts slaughtering their helpless prey.

“Tear out the heart too!”

A solider does as ordered and cracks open the native’s chest, hacking at the ribcage in gusto. There, in the cavity, beating no more is the source of all life. In three quick stabs, he removes the organ and passes it to his nation.

“How does it feel to watch one of your own have their heart torn out, mi querida?” he cackles.

She can do nothing but watch as the twisted nation ravenously bites off a piece of the plump tissue and gobble it down. Watch as sharp canines rip into the tender flesh.

Tiny red droplets drip on to a small silver cross strung around his neck.

“Delicious~ So delicious!” he moans in delight, taking another bite and another with blood dribbling down his chin. “I wonder if all of his organs taste this good. Take out the liver this time—”

“No! Stop it!”

All manners of movement halt at the sound of the woman’s sobbing voice. She bows her head in defeat, heavy tears dotting the stone floor at her feet.

He gleefully flashes a blood-stained smile as he devours the rest of the heart in malice. He sensuously licks his lips clean of that luscious liquid.

The Aztec Empire is broken. He wins.

“I will tell you what you seek…if you leave my people alone,” she quietly says.

“Sí, of course!”

Dangling the earrings in her face, Spain looms over and whispers four simple words in her ear.

“Where is El Dorado?”


End file.
